


The Ninth Shri'Tal of Julian Bashir

by Zikul



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 07:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17862731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zikul/pseuds/Zikul
Summary: There are no lengths Elim wouldn't go to, to save those he care for. The problem? It's the wrong Elim.





	The Ninth Shri'Tal of Julian Bashir

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slightly darker fic, tangenting on horror genre. There's no violence or gross stuff, just unpleasant confusion and even more unpleasant clarity.

Consciousness thin as flowey fabric, a distant tickle on a face not-entirely-his own, a movement in his guts like it’s possessed by worms. Nausea – but he isn’t sure where he is, or what the humming sound beyond the borders of his senses might be.

 

The floor is hard like rock and taste like dusty salt. Something unfamiliar laces the particles which come along with each breath. Eyes flickering like dying butterflies, trying to focus on the light that keeps swarming like fireflies. Insects and worms, gross and crawling, myriads of tiny fet pricking his skin like nails – God, they really are like nails!

 

And a voice that breaks the silence. Someone there, behind a curtain of glimmer, his voice is blue and gray, and friendly like the blue sky painted on a lake, a deceitful picture of innocence, beneath which awaits many-teethed fish and drowning traps.

“Is he intact?” the voice asks, rippling waves seeking an island – he’s not the island it’s looking for.

“Give me just a moment,” another voice answers, coolly professional and removed, “Ah, yes. This one seem promising.”

“You’d better be right about that,” the first voice snipes, “how many have we pulled already? Six?”

“Eight, if you include the ones that spliced.”

“Is it conscious? When can we begin?” There’s a sound like a click, and the flies yield to darkness as a figure, towering high, enters the blackness.

“I’d say... a day or two. Memory export is a taxing procedure, and I’d like for him to be prepared, so to cause as little damage as possible -”

“Unlike last time, I know,” it’s the tall shadow who is speaking, and falling like a waterfall, sitting on his heels. A hand, very warm, to what must be the self’s shoulder – blue eyes, grey skin. A faint feeling of... of something familiar.

“Do I know you?” the voice of the self is hoarse, and the hand is removed.

“I’m afraid not, my dear,” says the voice, but it says it as if that was a lie, “how many fingers am I holding up?” There’s a risen hand, difficult to discern – even with a frown it doesn’t focus very well, “Ah, not yet, then. Well, that is all normal.” His knees make a clicking sound as he gets up. There’s reckognition now.

“Garak,” but perhaps it isn’t him – Garak never wore an armour like that.

“Tain,” the counter comes just like that, along with a flavour akin to fascination, “what do you say about that, Kelas?” he turns his head to the unseen, “That makes four of them. Tell me,” he sits again, his eyes very much those of Garak, “How did you meet him? This Garak, of which I remind you?”

“I -” but there’s no memory, “I don’t know.”

“Was he a florist aboard a space station? Or perhaps a hairdresser?” those fit the same way that puzzle pieces from two different pictures might fit – oddly compatible, yet the image created was... ill fitting.

“Tailor,” that voice again, the one of the self, hoarse and painful.

“Ha! Someone didn’t move on from their task, I see,” there was a chuckle and a head-shake, “must’ve been one of the less interesting ones. What is he like? A friend? An enemy? Lover, perhaps?”  
“What do you want, Tain?” Tain reminds of something negative, anger and frustration. Must not tell Tain too much – whoever he is, associations come like dark chains, clear and cutting.

“Are you familiar with the Cardassian death rite known as Shri’Tal?” Tain answers the question with one of his own, “It is customary to let a dying person talk to his or her closest about his life, before he passes away. This is the kindness I am offering to you, my dear.” Far from innocent, that sweet smile and those blinking eyes.

“Garak,” more memories are returning to him now, and he gets up, elbow on the floor so he can sit more easily. That man, in that Cardassian armour, is not Tain. It’s Garak, “what’s going on?”

“Lover,” guessed Kelas from where he couldn’t see.

“Nobody asked you for your opinion, Doctor,” Tain shot over his shoulder, then turned blue eyes to the hapless mess in front of him.

“It’s not funny.”

“Is your name Julian or Subatoi?”

“What?” a frown that felt like it crinkled the entire universe. Things were starting to both make a lot of sense, and none at all.

“Where you come from, are you a Julian or a Subatoi? Or a Jules, maybe?”

“Garak...” there’s a bit more frustration now – always games with that Cardassian, never enough sense, and this, this really is too much.

“No, no, don’t be confused like that – I am a _Tain_ not a _Garak_. There sure is an alarming rate of Garak’s out there, isn’t it?” he threw over his shoulder and clicked his tongue, “And all of them extremely unfortunate as well... florists, hairdressers, _tailors_... not a single head of the Obsidian Order – except yours truly. A swindling thought, that I’d be so unique.”

“What are you...”

“Can you keep him laying down? He’s not entirely phased in yet,” Kelas’ voice came like an order rather than a request – a bit brave for someone who was referred to as just a Doctor.

“Do as he says,” somehow, for some reason, Julian chose to obey, “we are like magnets in a void, you and me. We seem to end up in each other’s planetary pull over and over – friends, enemies, lovers, murderers – yes, one of you successfully murdered me,” a toothy grin, brief like lightning, “to think that _this_ universe should be the one in which you’d be so damaged beyond repair. But fret not,” a finger traced Julian’s cheek, drawing tingling tickles there, “I’ll mend everything that was broken. I’ll have you back, my dear, if so it takes me to go through _all_ the Julians and Subatois and Jules’ of the _entire_ multiverse. It’s that precious brain of yours, you see. And that spark of life you call soul, your fateline – a pulsating light. He lost it, but you... _you_ , my sweet, will light his way back. And I am so very thankful for your sacrifice.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments of any kind are always welcome. (I already know there's a tempus shift in there, for which I am sorry, but not enough to do something about it).


End file.
